


Nothing of Consequence

by fictorium



Category: V (2009)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-18
Updated: 2010-07-18
Packaged: 2017-10-10 15:57:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/101511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictorium/pseuds/fictorium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>for the Porn Battle, prompt: leather.  Very PWP, an interlude of Erica and Hobbes having a few moments of common ground.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing of Consequence

She feels the heat of his hand even through the thick leather of her jacket. When he spins her around to face him, Erica is ready to meet him with her fist. He blocks her incoming right hook, and smirks like the goddamn smug, Georgie-sacrificing bastard he is.

 

So it's even more satisfying that he doesn't see the slap coming from her left.

 

His cheek reddens instantly with the outline of her fingers, and Erica has to confess she wasn't expecting to enjoy marking him quite this much. Hobbes walks around like his skin can deflect bullets, and a little reminder of his (twisted) humanity is something she hadn't realized she needed. She did, and she does, and she's too busy rationalizing to stop him from kissing her.

 

Hobbes kisses like it's an incursion into enemy territory, overwhelming her senses with the force of his lips and then his tongue. Erica opens her mouth, to tell him to go to hell, and instead she's kissing him back. Her right wrist is still in his grip, and it's just shy of hurting. Erica thinks the suggestion of pain might be all that's tethering her to sanity, because the world hasn't made sense for quite some time and she's making out with the last guy on earth that she should be interested in.

 

In the basement of a church, of all places, not that either of them is religious enough for it to count as sacrilege. What Erica wants, to be perfectly, painfully honest, is to find a way to stop thinking. To reduce the world down to mouths and fingers and the erection that's pressed against her hip. If this happens, if she lets it happen, then maybe the planet isn't about to be colonized and her family isn't falling apart and she isn't losing on every front that she's fighting a war.

 

And yeah, maybe she likes the accent. Or the way his arms look when he's wearing a tank top. Maybe she's lost her fucking mind, but Erica doesn't have the energy to care. Not when Hobbes lets his other hand stray to her breast, the rough texture of his palm just noticeable through her cotton shirt and bra. Her nipple hardens instantly, betraying her response before she can even attempt to make peace with it. Erica surrenders, just a little, for the first time in years and lets him push her back against the wall.

 

She's getting to him already, and that's a victory in itself. His breathing is as ragged as her own when their lips part, and Erica wrenches her arm free from his grasp. He doesn't try to recapture her now, it's a gauntlet thrown down for her to accept: if they do this, she has to choose it right along with him.

 

Instead, she uses her hands to get leverage on his (broad, strong) shoulders and he plays his part by taking hold of her hips. Erica wraps her legs around him and she's free of the ground altogether.

 

Hobbes isn't going for finesse, whether because he's scared she'll see sense at any moment or because he's been wanting this every bit as much, Erica doesn't want to speculate. His kisses, when they resume, are nearly frantic, with the scrap of stubble across her jaw and her throat as he ventures further. Erica tilts her head back, letting the first little moan escape and tangles her fingers in his hair. She promises herself in that moment that his name will not pass her lips, and that will give her some deniability in the morning.

 

Opening her shirt takes almost no time, Hobbes as adept with buttons as he is at assembling an AR15. He fumbles a little with her bra, but Erica forgives it in favor of yanking his shirt over his head. His skin is impossibly warm against her own, a million miles from the aliens who brought them together. Not that they'll ever be together, she reprimands herself.

 

This is just a way to pass the time on the way to the end of the world. Erica can't remember the last time she did something this reckless, and she isn't sure she cares. The navigate the unfastening of jeans and a momentary fumble for a condom (because of course he has one, he's like what happens if a Boy Scout grows up and goes to the Dark Side).

 

She stops thinking when his fingers graze her clit, almost stops existing when he starts to do a lot more than graze. They fuck with the cool smoothness of the wall against her back and their heat seemingly everywhere else. He makes her come twice before he's done, and of all the things she figured, Hobbes as an unselfish lover wasn't one of them.

 

Erica pushes him away after resting her head on his shoulder. It isn't affection, just somewhere to rest her head until her legs work again. The moment turns awkward at warp speed, the cruelty back in his smile even as his cheeks are flushed. Eyes averted, they struggle back into their clothes in record time. Erica thinks of smartass parting shots, but in the end she stumbles towards the stairs with her knees still slightly weak.

Hobbes can't let it go of course. As her hand makes contact with the doorhandle, she hears him call after her.

 

"Thanks for the booty call."

 

Yeah, it was one hell of a mistake. She slips behind the wheel of her car, pointedly ignoring the satisfied thrum between her thighs. Maybe she'll make it again, before they lose this futile battle. Maybe she'll end up putting a bullet in his head for betraying them, and either is horrifically plausible.

 

But tonight, she knows she'll sleep. That's enough for now.


End file.
